


Golden Ages

by citrinevaliance



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/F, Gen, Tolkien Secret Santa 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-19 05:55:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13117458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/citrinevaliance/pseuds/citrinevaliance
Summary: "'Therefore do not bend Ancalimë. Once bend a little, and they will bend you further until you are bowed down. Sink your roots into the rock, and face the wind, though it blow away all your leaves.'"





	Golden Ages

**Author's Note:**

> This was a 2017 Tolkien Secret Santa gift for @elfmaidens on tumblr.
> 
> Enjoy! (and Happy Holidays!)

1\. She pokes at the dirt with a stick, carving grooves and mountains in the space between two roots that poke through the soil. She frowns, pressing her lips together, and shoves a bit of the dirt to the left.  
Ancalimë tosses the stick off to the side and admires her handiwork. It’s a perfect map of Númenor. Each hill and valley is exactly proportional. Even the rivers widen into fens that deepen in exactly the right places.  
She snorts, gets up, and kicks through her four-inch art project. Ancalimë runs her fingers through her hair, tossing her curls over her shoulder.  
The sun has been setting while she worked at her ant’s project, and a cool breeze blows through the leaves of the oak above.  
The house is empty when she gets back. It jars her for a moment before she remembers that the house has been empty and empty and empty for months. She pulls open the door (she never bothers to lock the door. What is there to steal, here in the middle of nowhere?).  
The house is empty and quiet. Planes of blue light fall across the worn floorboards. She breathes in, and then out, and then in again and holds it.  
Then she goes to find bread from the pantry.  
She chews the half-hard bread as she watches the light fade across the fields. When she goes back to the house even she cannot see the dirt on her hands.

2\. Years and years ago, when Ancalimë had eyes as large as the moon her father came into her room and knelt down on his knees so that he was her height. He presented her with a branch of laurels. Ancalimë took it gazing into his eyes that were as dark as storms, and she thanked him. Later she hid it under the floorboards so her mother would not know what had occurred.

3.She is long, long past dealing with Hallacar, so when she returns to the capital after having narrowly escaped a group of advisors intent on badgering into some state dinner or other and Hallacar is there waiting for her in her rooms she says nothing but “Go.”  
Hallacar does not go, which she once counted as a measure of his strength. Few dare to cross her when her eyes go cold and her mouth is set in a hard line. Hallacar is one of the few.  
“Ancalimë,” he pleads, and she turns from him and casts her gaze anywhere but him. “I do not come to fight you.”  
“And I do not come here to rule.”  
“I do not want to fight you,” he says. I come for our son.” He walks over to her, telegraphing his movements.  
She pulls away from his touch.  
“He would see you. A son should not grow up without his mother.”  
Ancalimë keeps her expression neutral, and turns to stare at him. “One parent was enough for me.”  
Hallacar stares back at her with pleading eyes, undaunted.  
Ancalimë tosses her head, and turns to rearrange the gifts for her return that lie scattered on her bureau.  
Hallacar sighs. “He has grown much since you last saw him.”  
“You are the same as ever,” she replies, edging her words with as much iciness as she can muster.  
Hallacar turns away from her, shoulders sagging, and walks out of the room.  
Ancalimë is clever, cleverer than he took her for all those years ago, and now she knows his sadness is all an act.  
She frowns in frustration, for still she feels uneasy.  
Ancalimë undresses for bed quickly. In the morning her eyes are dark circles and her sheets are a rumpled mess. She still feels ill at ease.

4\. Erendis had hair darker than a new moon and eyes that caught the fire light and made it so that her eyes themselves became flame. When Ancalimë was ten she saw her standing by the fire, cursing Aldarion for abandoning his people. (Years after, Ancalimë realizes that her mother counted herself among his people.)

5\. The moon comes through her window, staining the white marble silver. She stalks back and forth in front of it, casting her shadow over the light on the floor.  
A soft knock is sounded on her door.  
Ancalimë turns sharply, her heavy silk skirts whirling at her ankles. The gold plaited through her hair jingles. Her eyes narrow, and she draws herself up to her full height  
The door swings open smoothly.  
“Cal,” a soft voice says  
Ancalimë smiles, and relaxes, “Astarain.”  
“They ask for you at the feast.”  
Ancalimë smirks, “Is that why you have come to see me?”  
“It was... a convenient excuse.” Astarain moves into the room.  
Ancalimë turns away, a mock sad note in her voice. “But they will look for you if you do not return soon.”  
Astarain crosses the room. Ancalimë turns to kiss her.  
When they finally break apart, Astarain is pressed up against the wall. The silver chains around her wrists are caught in Ancalimë’s hair and she is breathing heavily.  
Astarain drags Ancalimë to the bed.  
“Funny,” Ancalimë says, “I thought you had to return.”  
And then she says no more.

6\. When Ancalimë was fourteen, two of her mother’s handmaidens came to her with a dispute. Ancalimë was to decide which of them was to marry a nobleman that had come courting, for he had made advances on them both. Ancalimë had tugged at her hair and bit her lip and asked them why they wanted to marry someone who saw no difference between them.

7\. Ancalimë sits in her throne room listening to the concerns of her people. The room is hung with richly embroidered tapestries depicting her predecessors. A window arches up behind her, reaching the ceiling, filling the room with the light of the setting sun.  
Before her are two squabbling noblemen, both shining with sweat. They have been yelling for what Ancalimë calculates to be nearly twenty minutes about a pig that may or may not have been stolen but was most assuredly necessary for the prosperity of each of their summer homes.  
“You,” she says, addressing the first one directly. “How long did it take for you to notice that your pig was stolen?”  
The nobleman shifts uncomfortably in the spotlight. “My Queen,” he says, “I do not remember.”  
Ancalimë frowns. “How long ago did this occur?”  
“I cannot rightly say- I feel this is essential to the case.”  
Ancalimë silences him with a look. “How long ago did the alleged theft occur?”  
She spots the other nobleman smiling, and glares at him. He stops smiling.  
“I- I believe it occurred a couple years ago.”  
“How many years ago?” Ancalimë leans back in her throne, staring at him with stormy eyes.  
“Seven or- or so, to the best of my knowledge.”  
“And in the time since,” she says, glad the matter is nearly dealt with. “Has your estate suffered any losses that might have been solved with the possession of the pig?”  
“Well- no- but the matter-n” The noble man fidgets angrily with the cuff of his sleeve. “The matter is that he stole my pig. The principles remain.”  
Ancalimë raises her eyebrows and turns to the other man.  
“You have been his neighbor for forty years, am I correct?”  
The second nobleman nods.  
“In that time, has any of your property mysteriously gone missing?”  
The nobleman frowns. “Aye. Some years ago several bushels of grapes went missing overnight.”  
“Was the cause discovered?”  
“No,” the man says, face creased in confusion.  
“How many pigs do you currently have on your farm?”  
“About two hundred.”  
“Then,” she says, turning back to the first nobleman, “It seems that he has no cause to steal your pig.”  
“Aye, but someone in his household might have.”  
Ancalimë stared at him. “Then I suggest you ask him if he thinks anyone in his household could be stealing instead of suing him for theft years after the fact when it clearly has not harmed you.”  
“He must pay for the pig! You fully admit that a member of his household is responsible for it!”  
Ancalimë sits up, staring down at him. He squints, for the setting sun it behind her and she is outlined in a halo of gold.  
“You forget yourself. I am the queen. My word is final. You take up my time with your petty disputes because you cannot admit to yourself that it is all too likely your pig was stolen without his knowledge, because you have already accused him of theft and will not take back your words. To argue without cause is dangerous. Do not waste my time further.”  
She stands up and walks between the two noblemen without paying them a glance. Before leaving the room entirely she announces, “We will return to session after the sun is fully set. I expect you two to settle your differences in private. I am finished with your games of blame.”  
The door swings shut behind her and she smiles, for she knows she has made an impression.

8\. When Ancalimë was forty, she visited Rómenna for the first time. She walked through the streets, hood thrown down, hair spilling across her back. She still remembers the whispers that slowly spread as people realized who she was. There was a song about it then. ‘Oh see the white tides where the princess waits, father a-coming, father a-coming’

9\. It is winter in the countryside in a way it is never winter in Armenelos. The grass is brown and frozen, patched with snow. The late November wind gusts across open fields until it makes its way into your house and hearth.  
Ancalimë is sat by the fire, whittling distractedly at a stick. After a while her hands begin to grow tired, and she sets the work away. She pulls her knees up to her chest and gives in to her drooping eyelids, falling into a light doze.  
Many hours later, as near as she can tell, when the fire has burned down, there is a knock at her door.  
Ancalimë casts a suspicious glance up at it and rises quietly, balancing on the balls of her feet. She feels for the dagger at her side, and relaxes slightly when her hand clasps around the leather bound hilt.  
The door creaks open, and standing there before her in the light of the coals is her father, crowned with stars.  
She backs away suddenly, nearly losing her balance. Ancalimë falls against the rough mantelpiece and stays there, crouched in alarm.  
Her father steps forward, out of his crown of stars, and she sees the curl of his hair and realizes that he is not her father at all.  
“Anárion,” she says, determined not to let any of the fear she had felt a moment before into her voice.  
“Hello mother,” he says quietly, staring into her eyes.  
Ancalimë squares her shoulders. “I have not seen you in many years.”  
Anárion’s expression remains still and composed as the very marble of Armenelos. “You have not tried to see me.”  
Ancalimë makes no move to contradict him.  
“Why have you come here?”  
“My father wishes for you to return to the capitol.”  
“Your father does not command me,” she says, a note of warning in her voice.  
“He is dying,” Anárion says, and for the first time Ancalimë sees his composure crack.  
Ancalimë feels off balance for the first time in many years. “If he wished for me to visit him he might have asked instead of commanded.”  
Anárion begins to laugh a harsh, strange laugh that seems out of character for a man who had just been crowned with stars. “He was right,” he says after he has finished laughing, and his voice is like steel. “Your pride will ruin you.”  
Ancalimë’s hands quiver with rage. “Better proud than a liar. If my pride ruins me at least it will not make a fool of me. My life is my own and I will not come running at anyone’s beck and call.”  
“So be it,” Anárion says, his face back to marble. He walks out the door into the winter night, and the stars follow him.  
‘So be it!’ She wishes to tell after him, but instead she whispers it and the wind snatched away her words.

10\. Many years from now, when Ancalimë’s hair is streaked with silver, she will look out at the seas to the south with her back to the hills and cities, and she will watch the sailboats sail on the sea.

**Author's Note:**

> As always... constructive criticism is craved!


End file.
